Show me in paint
by servantofclio
Summary: Branwen Lavellan considers the frescoes in the tower, and their painter.


When Branwen descended the stairs to reach the lowest level of Skyhold's round tower, the was met at once with the sharp, curious aroma of paint. The smell was familiar by now, after weeks of seeing Solas work; indeed, almost comforting. Branwen paused to take in the towering images, bold in black and ochre and gold. The third panel appeared nearly done, and she thought she could see the lines of a fourth sketched out on the next section of the wall, but she could not quite make sense of the image.

Solas himself was not the scaffolding, but stood by the desk at the center of the room, bent over the litter of papers and pots and cups. As Branwen approached, he said, without looking up, "Have you need of me, ma vhenan?"

He sounded calm and easy, which warmed her heart. "Nothing urgent," Branwen replied. "I've no wish to interrupt."

"As it happens, I have finished for the day." She watched as he covered the various pots of pigment and set them aside, admiring the deft, dexterous movements of his hands. She'd grown fond of his hands, broad and long-fingered and strong, but always supple and graceful. "I shall have to obtain something for blues. Lapis, if we can find it."

"I'm sure we can obtain some," Branwen said, drawing nearer. "I'll talk to the quartermaster. And, Josephine is most enamored of your work. She'll happily pull strings."

Solas chuckled, no more than a short breath of air. "I'm sure it makes a most impressive welcome to Skyhold's guests." He reached for a cloth to wipe the remains of pigment from his hands, and looked up. "I do not do the work for them, however. Nor for the ambassador."

Branwen's cheeks warmed under that steady grey-eyed regard. Solas had begun painting the fresco when there was hardly anything more than potential between them, and the idea that he would invest so much time and effort and skill into the paintings, for her, was almost too powerful to consider. It did strange things to her. She felt warm on the inside and simultaneously wanted to shiver. She turned her eyes away, to the first of the painted panels, and cleared her throat. "Why did you make us wolves? The Inquisition?"

"Are we not?" Solas moved closer, standing just behind her, his shoulder brushing her own. "We gathered and declared ourselves in defiance of the Chantry and what made the Breach itself. Like wolves, we travel in packs. We are fierce to our enemies, but yet pragmatic."

Branwen nodded, slowly. The metaphor suited, even though it gave her a prickle of unease. She had long seen herself as more of a guard than a hunter, but the Inquisition required her to become something other than what she had been in her clan.

She turned back to Solas, leaving the painting to loom behind her, but whatever she had meant to say left her head when she noticed the streak of dark brown along his chin. "You have a mark," she said, gesturing with her own hand.

"Oh?" He wiped at his cheek and jaw with the rag, but succeeded mostly in smearing the paint. Branwen pressed her lips together, holding back her laugh.

"No, you've made it worse. May I?"

He regarded her with a tolerant smile, dark eyebrows slightly raised, and nodded. Branwen licked her thumb and reached out to wipe the paint away. She meant to be brisk and efficient, but it was difficult not to linger a little at the feel of warm skin over elegant bone. "There," she finally said, her voice not quite steady.

"Thank you," Solas said, closing his hand over hers. His grip was warm and strong, but gentle, easy to slip out of if she chose. She raised her eyes to meet his once more.

Their kiss was warm and slow and deep. He kissed her like someone who knew what he wanted, and sought to drink it in as long as he could. He smelled of the paint, and wool, and woodsmoke. She let herself be drawn in, appreciating the way their bodies molded together and the rough, comfortable texture of his favorite woolen tunic. She could feel the slight movement of his ribcage as her arms encircled him, and his lips, soft and warm and insistent. She was no less eager, she knew, leaning into the kiss just as much, seeking to taste, feel, almost meld into one...

Their lips finally separated, reluctantly. Branwen felt light-headed, nearly drunk on the kiss. She might have been unsteady on her feet, but he held her securely, and close. "Perhaps," she murmured, conscious of those in the library and rookery above, "we might retire elsewhere."

"As you say," Solas replied. His arms came away slowly, as if unwilling to give her up. But they both preferred to walk across the great hall without hanging on each other like giddy adolescents, so Branwen tugged her jacket into place and self-consciously smoothed back a stray wisp of hair. They left the tower side by side, although she was sure that those who knew them well were not fooled by the distance they left between them for propriety's sake.

She spared one last glance over her shoulder as they left. The bold images stared down implacably, setting a shiver running through her. All for her, this painted record of her deeds, and the Inquisition's, made to last hundreds of years.

She turned her head the other way, and caught Solas' smile—a quiet half-smile in her direction, really, and his usually cool eyes were warm. The shiver in her spine warmed in turn, into anticipation, and she smiled back as they walked into the hall together.


End file.
